


Où Les Fleurs Sauvages Grandissent

by universaljourney



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Canon Compliant, F/F, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 06:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17761430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universaljourney/pseuds/universaljourney
Summary: An exploration of a possible relationship between Fleur and Hermione in Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire. Fleur is beautiful and clever and French. Hermione doesn't know what to think about it all.Spans the entire fourth year.





	Où Les Fleurs Sauvages Grandissent

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything in it belongs rightfully to JK Rowling.

Où Les Fleurs Sauvages Grandissent  
The first time Hermione saw the girl, she was squinting at the massive horses as they descended to the ground. Of course, she had read all about them in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them: Abraxan winged horses. They were a rare form of Patronus and only drank single-malt whiskey, and while Hermione knew they were quite large, it was fascinating to finally see one in person. Hermione stared in awe as they landed, and then turned just in time to see Madame Maxime (who she read about in An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe) step out of the carriage. She was an utterly enormous woman, and while the rest of her peers turned to chatter and start up lurid rumors, Hermione simply cocked her head, and thought that the woman must have some semblance of giant’s blood. She turned, about to voice her thought to the boys, when the girl came out.  
Her hair was tucked away in a cap, but immediately Hermione’s eyes were drawn to the long, graceful stride of her legs, and then upwards to her clear blue eyes, which Hermione knew must have only been enhanced by the deeper blue of her robes. This girl was utterly gorgeous, and Hermione watched her for a minute, before shaking her head. She felt an illogical twinge of annoyance, and was glad that the dark shade of her skin would prevent a noticeable blush from developing. She had never honestly been a jealous person before, and realized that it was completely irrational, so she therefore quashed it down. It would do no good to cause unreasonable enmity with the guests of her school.  
She was distracted from the girl by Ron’s whisper of “Harry—it’s Krum!” Hermione turned over and was immediately disappointed; how did she miss the ship’s entrance? And she had been waiting to see how each school went about making an entrance. She was in a fairly bad mood at this point, and Ron was certainly not helping.  
“I don’t believe it!” Ron said, and Hermione rolled her eyes. “Krum, Harry! Viktor Krum!”  
“For heaven’s sake, Ron, he’s only a Quidditch player,” Hermione snapped, feeling hardly any regret. They walked past a group of girls acting ridiculous over the new arrival. “Really,” Hermione said, fed up with the others’ infatuation with Krum. Her heart sank as her thoughts wandered back to the girl, but she quickly recognized the ridiculous nature of her thoughts and focused her efforts on trying to stalk coolly over to the Gryffindor table. She chanced a glance over at the Beauxbatons students at the Ravenclaw table, and sniffed. “It’s not that cold. Why didn’t they bring cloaks?” While she said this she realized she most definitely had the urge to bring the shivering blonde her cloak. Ridiculous, Hermione thought as she stared. Their eyes met, and Hermione then quickly turned back, determined to not to waste her time looking at some girl.  
Quickly, however, Hermione tuned out of Ron and Harry’s conversation to sneak glances at the girl, which she knew was obviously only because Harry and Ron were being extremely dull. She straightened though, and half-paid attention as Dumbledore welcomed the new students, and expressed his hopes that the guests would be comfortable. The blonde snorted, after, and immediately Hermione felt a hot embarrassment wriggle through her gut.  
“No one’s making you stay!” Hermione whispered, and eyed her disapprovingly. Obviously, she realized she was previously completely ridiculous—she had no time to waste being jealous of a snob similar to the likes of Draco Malfoy. Dinner after that went fairly normally, and Hermione felt herself grow more comfortable. That is, until she heard a voice behind her.  
“Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?” The girl’s hair was down, and flowed over her elegant shoulders like silvery moonlight. Her voice was warm and prettily accented, and Hermione bristled as she looked at Ron staring stupidly up at her. White noise filled her head, and Hermione had no idea what had even been said, until the girl spoke again. “You ‘ave finished wiz it?” More words were exchanged, and Hermione watched as her feet gracefully tread back to the Ravenclaw table.  
“She’s a veela!” Ron said, and Hermione snorted  
“Of course she isn’t!” Hermione said hotly. “I don’t see anyone else gaping at her like an idiot!” But as she looked around, she suddenly realized with suddenly constricted lungs that the boys were indeed all looking. What airheads, she thought, and ignored her own urge to look. She would probably never see the girl around again, anyways.  
But alas, the girl was walking in to where the Goblet was kept the next time Hermione saw her. Hermione was sitting with Harry and Ron when she saw them coming from the distance, and quickly felt a bright surge of panic. What should she do? Ron mentioned Hagrid then, though, and Hermione plastered a look of excitement to her face. “I’ve just realized—I haven’t asked Hagrid to join S.P.E.W. yet! Wait for me, will you, while I nip upstairs and get the badges?” She jumped from her seat and hurried away quickly, trying to ignore the irrational relief that she wouldn’t again have to face the girl.  
It was a few weeks later, and Hermione waited in a bated excitement as the names were called. She thought Viktor Krum was quite obvious, what with his prestige, but the second name took her unawares. “The champion for Beauxbatons,” Dumbledore announced, “is Fleur Delacour!” Hermione looked over with interest, but felt her breathing stumble a bit as the girl regally got to her feet and slipped through the chamber door. Fleur: the girl had a name, now. This was the third time she had seen her, and Hermione felt immediately peeved that her earlier prediction of not seeing the girl again proved false. Cedric Diggory was called, then, and Hermione tried to refocus her mind from Fleur to the cup. It was nearly impossible to do so, until Harry was called, and her heart ceased to pump the necessary blood to her veins.  
The weeks went by and trying to repair Harry and Ron’s friendship mostly distracted Hermione from Fleur. Then Rita Skeeter’s article came out and she once again was spending much of her time comforting Harry. She herself received taunts, but promised herself she would stay above the rabble. In all honesty, Hermione had been flattered when she read the article—no one had ever referred to her as “stunningly pretty” before, and immediately she thought of Fleur reading the article for some strange reason. However, a moment later, she returned to her senses and realized grimly that not only did it do injustice to one of her best friends, but it also linked her to Harry—and, of course, Fleur transcended even “stunningly pretty.” She felt immediately guilty for her original flattery, and onward, rightly hated the article.  
The fourth time Hermione saw Fleur, it was in the library, and she groaned as the blonde entered. The library was her quiet space, after all, and already, Viktor Krum was loping around, as he had been lately, and staring at her. She wished he would stop, as it made her quite annoyed, and not to mention, the library was for research, not aimless wandering. But a presence then made itself noticed at Hermione’s side, and Hermione retracted her glare from Viktor.  
“I am not meaning to bozzer, but are you alright?” It was Fleur, beautiful as always in blue.  
“Quite fine, th-thanks,” Hermione stammered, flushed and annoyed. She knew she shouldn’t be talking in the library, but couldn’t seem to stop herself.  
“He eez interested, no?” Fleur asked, and Hermione followed her gaze to where Viktor stood, obviously trying to flex his arm muscles as he showily reached for a book. “But zen again, you and ‘Arry.” Fleur giggled brightly. “I think he eez… jealous.”  
“Oh, not at all.” Hermione said in a disgusted tone. “Harry is only a friend, and Viktor is completely not my type.”  
“Zen who eez your type?” Fleur asked delicately. Hermione felt her hands start to sweat, and wondered what Fleur meant. Did the French consider others friends that quickly? She didn’t think so, but maybe it would do to research that a bit.  
“Um, I don’t believe that’s anyone’s business, and besides, I’ve only just met you.” Hermione gave Fleur a stern look. It really was none of her business, after all.  
“I apologize, zen.” Fleur got up as to leave, but then turned around. “But, about what the article said…” She bit her lip, a nervous gesture that Hermione noted quickly. “Tu n’es pas juste jolie, comme la rose dans le jardin.” She smiled cryptically, but almost sadly. “Mais tu es belle, et vivante, comme les fleurs sauvages des champs.” Fleur then walked away slowly, and Hermione scowled. She felt annoyed at the mysterious French girl, annoyed that she didn’t understand, and annoyed overall about the whole situation. She considered getting a dictionary to translate, but realized it was most likely derisive, and she had no interest in hearing it, or time to worry about a snobbish, pretty French girl.  
“Get a grip,” she muttered to herself, but realized with a twang in her chest that she dearly wished she knew what Fleur had said in that lovely French voice. Hermione tried to return to her books after a moment, but soon realized she was too frustrated, and left with Viktor’s eyes burning holes into her back. She tried to quash the illogical voice that wished they were Fleur’s eyes instead.  
Hermione was wrapped up in the first task not long after her strange meeting with Fleur, and spent most of her extra time helping Harry with his spellwork; dragons were obviously extremely dangerous, and Harry would only have his wand to depend on. She generally was focused on that, but whenever she passed Fleur it seemed as though she was trying extra-hard to avoid Hermione. Good. At least, until Fleur seemed to have forgotten she was trying to stay away from Hermione. Hermione was just sitting on a bench in the courtyard with Harry, discussing the first task and clearly minding her own business, when she caught the sound of Fleur’s laughter.  
She was talking to Cedric, a hand twirling through her hair, looking happier than any person had the right to be. Fleur clearly had some inability, apparently, to truly mind her own business. Hermione felt anger curl inside her gut when Fleur finally looked over. She looked dramatically different than she had a moment ago, suddenly lost and tired—she met eyes with Hermione, but quickly looked away, turning back to Cedric with a grin stretching too widely across her face. Hermione huffed, and she herself returned back to Harry far too quickly.  
The first task passed—Hermione was extraordinarily excited that Harry had made it through and stuck to the plan, even though he obviously had the unfair lot. Nothing could compare to her terror when the Horntail broke loose, and she herself almost cast a spell to slow the dragon, and as Ron might crudely say, bollocks to the rules. Though, Harry ended up finishing the quickest, and Hermione drowned in her own relief. Ron and Harry made up afterwards, and it seemed as though everything would eventually shape out to be all right, even with the impossible tasks ahead, and even with Rita Skeeter badgering them at every chance. Perhaps it was illogical, but Hermione nonetheless believed that together they could move through, as they had time and time again.  
Things, though, did not shape up to be all right, not, at least, for Hermione. It was an ordinary Tuesday in the library; Krum stalked about menacingly, Hermione was trying to do her homework responsibly, and various groups of students sat at the tables together, chattering quietly. Then, Fleur took a seat next to Hermione. Hermione rolled her eyes.  
“’Allo, ‘Ermione.” Fleur looked at her, and that same sickly heat curled in Hermione’s stomach.  
“Hello, Fleur,” Hermione said in a cool, polite tone. “How’s Cedric?” she snapped before she could stop it.  
“Fine.” Fleur’s eyes narrowed. “I ‘ope you do know zat eet eez not what you think.” Hermione huffed, and turned back to her books. “Come walk by ze lake wiz me?” Fleur asked in a plaintive voice, and Hermione felt her resolve crumble. “I can explain.”  
They walked out into the crisply cold day, and Fleur shivered. “Eet eez cold, no?”  
“Not that bad,” Hermione commented snippily.  
“’Ermione.” Fleur stopped as they reached the edge of the slate blue lake. “I did not mean to make you… uncomfortable, but I do…” She sighed, and ran her hand through her spun silver hair. Hermione observed it as it floated softly on a light breeze. “I want to see you more, if zat eez alright wiz you? I want to… be a friend.”  
Hermione felt an inexplicable tightness in her throat as she heard the last word. “Fleur…” Hermione’s eyes widened and a blind panic spread through her. She had been so daft, more daft than any person had a right to be. “Fleur, I… I simply cannot be your friend, I—“ She gasped, breathless, “I cannot be your friend and I do quite believe I am going mad and perhaps once I can see logically we may become friends but I really can’t, you’re Harry’s rival and he’s my close friend, and you…” She choked up. “I have to go.” Hermione then fled, leaving Fleur standing alone at the lake with a pained look in her eyes.  
Hermione had an affinity for Dean Thomas in her first year. He, too, was Muggleborn, and he was generally kind to Hermione, and she realized that she had juvenile, romantic feelings for him. They were never to be acted upon, but amusing to talk about occasionally with the other girls in her room. Hermione had come to a similar realization. She was certainly not jealous of Fleur, but rather... Hermione had considered herself open-minded, for the most part, but this was deviant and this could not be explained in a book and this was utterly wrong. She sat in her bed the rest of the day, hiding under the covers and trying to let the darkness quiet her mind of thoughts of Fleur.  
But Hermione’s thought could not stay away from Fleur, and perhaps her feelings reached far deeper than a juvenile affinity. Not perhaps. Certainly, and irrevocably. Hermione curled up in a ball, and tried to pretend that her feelings were not happening to her.  
The next month, Hermione spent working through the riddle of the egg with Harry, studying, and soon enough, preparing for the Yule Ball. Spirits were high around the school as Christmas break neared, but Hermione felt constantly lost, in a constant game of avoiding Fleur and staying busy. She tried to forget what was said on the lake, and tried to stamp down all feelings. But every morning, she woke up and felt ill as the remnants of a French voice filtered from her dreams and into her mind.  
Viktor Krum asked her to the Yule Ball, and she said yes. Ron was annoyed, sure, but she didn’t care. She should want Viktor—every other girl did. He was highly celebrated and projected a “strong and silent” aura and was masculine in figure. So Hermione went along with it.  
The night of the Yule Ball came, eventually, and Hermione actually felt some semblance of excitement for the first time in a while. The dress she had purchased was admittedly gorgeous, and she knew all eyes would be on her as she descended down the staircase and onto the floor. She pretended she wasn’t dressing for a certain eye, and after thinking it enough, she half-believed it herself.  
When Hermione entered the room, though, she was met with all sorts of stares, and a familiar hope rose in her that Fleur was looking, too. Her hair was straightened and silky, a change from her usual thick, frizzy curls, and she knew the pale blue of her dress contrasted in a visually pleasing way to her dark skin. Hermione swallowed as she realized the color of her gown matched Fleur’s eyes, but smiled broadly, feeling sincerely beautiful on the arm of the most sought-after boy.  
She danced happily with Viktor for a bit, but her smile faltered as she caught Fleur with her graceful waist between some boy’s hands. Roger Davies. Fleur looked over at her, and Hermione almost tripped at the weight of her gaze boring into her. She looked away. Hermione continued dancing with Viktor under the fairy lights, trying to look happy, trying to convey to Fleur that she was over it, that she was happy. But then Fleur left with Davies to stand behind a rosebush, and Hermione fumed as she caught his hands through her hair. She threw herself more and more into conversation with Viktor, stubbornly determined to not look at Fleur. Hermione then left the floor, and sat with Ron and Harry while Viktor got her a drink. Only, Ron became annoyed with her, and so Hermione defiantly went back to the dance floor with Viktor, despite the sick feeling in her stomach. She danced until the ball ended, gave a look to Ron, then smoothly went back up the stairs, feeling more miserable than she thought was possible with aching feet and an aching heart.  
Fleur and Hermione avoided each other even more in the lead-up to the second task, after the Yule Ball. Hermione was with Viktor now, and she was trying and she would be okay soon. She had to be. The second task was closer and closer, and soon, Hermione, victoriously, couldn’t even spare the focus on Fleur. But then she was taken, and put under the blue.  
Hermione coughed up water as she surfaced. A meaty arm was wrapped around her waist, and she looked to see Viktor’s face morph from the head of a shark.  
“Hermy-own-ee,” he said slowly. “You vill be alright.” He swam her to the docks, and she was pulled up to the platform. A blanket was wrapped around her, and she shivered madly. Hermione looked over, stricken, as a French voice cried out.  
“Gabrielle! Gabrielle!” Tears flowed freely from Fleur’s eyes, and she gasped. “I need to save ‘er!” Madame Maxime was restraining her. Viktor’s arm wrapped around Hermione, but she stepped away. Where was Harry? Suddenly, though, he broke the surface, with Ron and a blonde girl in arm. Gabrielle must have been Fleur’s sister, with that hair. Hermione looked over at Fleur, who fell to kneel at the edge of the platform. Her heart thumped painfully against her ribcage as she watched her. She wanted to approach Fleur, to grab her hand and tell her it was okay. Instead, she watched as Harry swam the two he rescued to the platform.  
Fleur hugged her sister and began speaking frenetically to her, when Harry was brought over. “Harry, well done!” she said, extremely proud of her friend. “You did it, you found out how all by yourself!” She and Harry spoke for a moment before Viktor interrupted, but Hermione barely listened to him as she quickly brushed the water beetle out of Harry’s hair. Fleur was soon carted off to stand with the rest of the contenders, though, and she looked at Harry with gratitude shining in her eyes. Hermione noted this as she looked over Fleur in concern, at her various cuts, and how violently she shivered.  
“You saved ‘er.” She said to Harry, “Even though she was not your ‘ostage.” Her eyes looked a bit frantic, still, from leftover adrenaline.  
“Yeah,” Harry said, looking away from her gaze, before Fleur kissed him on the cheeks. Hermione scowled, but grew angrier as Fleur turned to Ron.  
“And you too—you ‘elped—“ Fleur said, and kissed him straight on the mouth. Hermione huffed, and turned away to listen to results. Her cheeks were hot and her throat was tight and she just wanted to go curl in a ball and scream into her pillow. This feeling dissipated, though, as she heard how well Harry did, and she headed to the common room with a lighter attitude. Everyone crowded around the common room to hear Harry and Ron speak, and soon, Hermione grew deeply annoyed as Ron exaggerated his story. It also didn’t help now that she realized she was what Viktor would miss most. Hermione turned on her heel with a huff, and stormed to the portrait of the Fat Lady.  
She walked out into the cool halls, as it was still before supper, and decided to wander. Hermione had been annoyed with Fleur earlier, for kissing Ron and Harry, but she realized that she may be reading too much into it. After all, the French did have less of a stigma around casual affection, and she seriously doubted it was romantic, but rather a sign of gratitude. Her temper waned a bit as she continued to stalk the hallways. Hermione, however, halted in her tracks quickly as she saw Fleur sitting in the awning of a window, staring out at the grey lake. Her eyes were soft, and sad in the reflection from the window, and Hermione felt an uncontrollable urge to go speak with her. She knew that she shouldn’t allow her feelings the room to grow, but she was tired, and Fleur was clearly despairing.  
Hermione sat down across from Fleur, and Fleur looked over. “Oh.” Fleur then looked back out the window, not ignoring Hermione, but not ready to speak yet. After a minute, she began, with her eyes still trained on the lake. “I couldn’t save ‘er. My sister.” She spared a glance to Hermione, but then returned her blue gaze to the window. “A grindylow ‘as beaten me, and I failed ‘er.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Madame Maxime had us all put our names in, but I am scared. I am not strong enough for this.” She looked back to Hermione. “You are brave, but me? I miss Beauxbatons, I miss France, I miss just the smell of warm croissants in ze mornings. I’ve been… miserable ‘ere, and I just…”  
“Fleur,” Hermione said, her voice ringing out clearly. “You were chosen for an obvious reason. You’re scared, but so is everyone in it and it doesn’t mean you aren’t brave. Besides, this was one task. There is no saying if you will win, but even then, you were chosen, and that clearly says something.” Fleur looked up at Hermione with bewildered eyes. Hermione continued, but her voice shook. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve been like this, and I know it must sound odd now, but I’ve been…” She breathed in. “Ashamed. I’ve never felt this way towards a girl and maybe it’s odd and maybe it isn’t exactly normal, but Fleur, I’m utterly sick of the pretending.” Her eyes flashed with a rage not directed towards anyone in particular. “I have to tell Viktor and I have to stop because every time I look at you it hurts and I don’t care what others think but I just want the pain to end because I’m utterly miserable too.” She was breathless, and Fleur looked at Hermione contemplatively. “Say something, please,” Hermione begged.  
“I am… tired, as well.” She looked at Hermione from under her lashes, and a soft smile grazed her lips. “Do you know what I said to you zat day in ze library?”  
“No.” Hermione shrugged and looked down. “I thought it might be better to not know, actually.”  
Fleur’s smile spread, and she repeated her words. “Tu n’es pas jolie, comme la rose dans le jardin, mais tu es belle, et vivante, comme les fleurs sauvages des champs.”  
Hermione wrinkled her nose impatiently. “Are you not going to tell me what you actually said?”  
Fleur gave a throaty laugh. “Eet means, you are not pretty, like ze rose eenside ze garden, but you are beautiful, and lively, like ze wildflowers of ze fields.” Fleur’s eyes shone as she looked at Hermione. “Zat night at ze dance, you looked, as ze reporter lady said, ‘stunningly pretty,’ but I missed you.” Fleur smiled. “I like your hair natural. Eet eez more you.”  
Hermione smiled nervously. “I mean, thank you, but obviously I’m not close to being gorgeous like you are, pretty much everyone is drooling over you—“  
“But I only want one person.” Fleur leaned in closer and Hermione found that it was much harder to breath. “May I? S’il te plaît?” Hermione felt the heat of Fleur’s breath against her cheek, and she nodded with wide eyes. Her mouth was dry as Fleur pressed their lips together with light pressure, and Hermione leaned in, allowing Fleur to tangle her hands through her hair. It was quick, and chaste, but Hermione was still out of breath. She had never kissed anyone before.  
“That wasn’t just… out of gratitude or something, was it?” Hermione asked.  
“No,” Fleur said, leaning back in. “Not at all.”  
They talked as the sun began to go down, and told stories of school and home. Their laughter rung out through the empty hallways as they sat tangled together, and occasionally shared quick kisses.  
“Look, ‘Ermione,” Fleur said uneasily. “I do not want zees to end, but no one can know. We will meet up een private when we can, but for now, tell Viktor zat you want to be friends, maybe? Zen act, I guess, still togezzer, but…” she smiled. “Be only wiz me?”  
“Yes,” said Hermione with a bright smile, and cupped Fleur’s face between her hands. “Definitely.”  
The next few weeks, Hermione tried to act normal, but secretly felt as though she had a permanent Cheering Charm cast on her. She had talked to Viktor, who, “vould still like to be friends” and who wanted to have her over that summer, and continued having rendezvous with Fleur, who was incredible but also very knowledgeable. Their conversations left Hermione feeling as though she had learned quite a lot, and she was deeply content. Even when Rita Skeeter painted Hermione as having romantic relations with both Harry and Viktor through love potions, she could only laugh it off in response, and of course, excitedly tell Ron and Harry she was headed to Viktor’s that summer to keep the ruse going.  
But alas, Hermione was still simultaneously puzzling out the mystery of Barty Crouch. Sirius knew some about Barty Crouch’s son when she, Harry, and Ron visited; however, it was certainly not enough to point to a solution. Her and Ron fought once more over the house elves, and the article Rita Skeeter wrote that she at first had laughed about resulted in an outpour of hate mail. She was sitting in the hospital wing, with boil-covered hands, when Fleur came to her.  
“’Ermione, are you alright? I saw it this morning, it is completely ‘orrible.” Fleur said, and sat on the edge of Hermione’s bed. Hermione’s hands were covered in a salve and the pus was draining into a bucket.  
Hermione bit her lip. Her insides felt soupy and her brain, foggy. “I’m alright, really.” A tear escaped down her cheek.  
“No, no,” Fleur murmured, and kissed Hermione on the forehead. “You’re not. Eez zere anything I can do to ‘elp?”  
“I just hate that woman!” Hermione burst out. “I have no idea how she listens in on conversations or anything, even if she doesn’t know what’s really going on, but I plan on finding out!”  
“And you will,” Fleur said. “You are ze smartest witch of your age, after all.” Hermione grinned, but winced as a bubble of pus burst into the bowl.  
“You should probably get to class. I’ll be fine in less than an hour, I’m sure.” Hermione knew that the effects of bubotuber pus would take longer than that to heal, but also did not want Fleur to miss out on class.  
“I will leave you be, zen.” Fleur smiled softly with her straight, white teeth. “Talk to me soon again, no?” Hermione smiled, and watched as Fleur slid through the white curtains surrounding her bed. She sighed, and knew that the next few weeks would be long and arduous.  
The third task was approaching, and along with her regular schoolwork, Hermione was busy reading up on ways Skeeter may have been infiltrating Hogwarts, and of course, discussing the third task with Fleur and Harry. Fleur thought the maze would be underground tunnels; Harry, conversely, had no idea. However, when it came out that the maze was of hedges, both were relieved. They thought it would be easier, but Hermione was worried. She knew the third task would have to be the most difficult one—it was only logical that the tasks increased in difficulty as the tournament continued on.  
On top of that, Crouch was spotted and had attacked Viktor—but they still had no rational leads. There were too many problems, not enough time, and not enough information to figure them out. How on earth could Crouch have gotten away in time without Disapparating? It made no sense, which deeply bothered Hermione, but then there was no time what with practicing spells with Harry. The first priority was getting Harry out alive. She and Fleur still managed to get away at times, but she was so busy it was nearly impossible. The only new information they received was on Snape and Karkaroff, and if Dumbledore didn’t have any answers, Hermione trusted his judgment.  
The night before the final task, Hermione sat in a secluded corner of the castle with Fleur’s head resting in her lap.  
“I do not wish to… disappoint my family.” Fleur sighed as Hermione stroked through her hair. “Eet will not be easy but I do know I will not want to come in last—and I do not think I will get first.”  
“Really, it’s all chance. You never know what could possibly happen, so I do believe you may win.” Hermione paused a moment. “No matter, though, because I am certain that I will always be proud of you. You know that, right?”  
“’Ermione, what will ‘appen when summer comes?” Fleur asked plaintively.  
“I suppose we could write…” Hermione furrowed her brow. “But I don’t know, honestly. I guess right now we focus on the task, and after, we spend the rest of the time we’ve got together well.”  
“I will miss you,” Fleur said, and sat up. “So, so much.”  
“Hey, no one is dying here, you sound like Professor Trelawney.” Fleur laughed, as Hermione had told her all about Divination at Hogwarts, and leaned forward. She kissed Hermione softly, and then pulled back.  
“We should go to bed,” Fleur said. “I ‘ave a lot to do tomorrow.”  
“Oh, yes, definitely,” Hermione grimaced. “I completely lost track of the time.”  
“Good night, ‘Ermione.”  
“Good night.”  
The next morning, Hermione was properly in a rage after seeing Skeeter’s new article, painting Harry as mentally unstable. That was, until she realized how Skeeter got around. It was so obvious! Malfoy must have been talking to Skeeter cupped in his hand the other day, and Hermione was going to find out what Shrinking Charm the reporter had used. She barely ate before bolting to the library, and was almost late for her History of Magic final, which was fairly easy, but she still stayed afterwards to ask Professor Binns a few questions. Hermione came halfway through lunch to fortunately find the Weasleys there to cheer on Harry, and once Harry assured Mrs. Weasley that Hermione was not his girlfriend, Mrs. Weasley seemed to have forgiven her. Afterwards, they went to the stands, and Harry left to join the other contestants.  
Hermione looked down at Fleur, speaking with Ludo Bagman, Professor McGonagall, and the others in front of the maze. Fleur scanned the crowd, and smiled when she saw Hermione. Hermione gave a thumbs-up, and Fleur quickly turned back to her conversation. Bagman then cast a rather admirable Amplifying Charm, and soon the contestants were off. No one could see them inside the maze, but the crowd chattered excitedly, making bets and worrying over their friends.  
It felt as though ages passed before the first sparks were sent up. Fleur was pulled from the maze with a tear-stained face, and Hermione winced. Obviously she was glad Fleur was safe (and that Harry may win), but she knew Fleur hadn’t wanted to come in last place. Fleur was taken away to her family, though, and Hermione turned back to the endless green of the maze with a gaze that couldn’t pierce its mysteries.  
Krum came out, eventually, and the crowd was in frenzy. Which contestant would win? Cheers sounded for Harry, and for Cedric. Cedric’s father stared gleefully at the maze, telling everyone he could that, “that’s my boy in there!” Mrs. Weasley fussed and worried over Harry, and Ron ate any and all sweets he could scrounge up. Hermione was a bit concerned for Harry, but she did realize that Harry and Cedric were bound to come out soon. After all, how long could the maze really take? The edges of the hedges seemed to bristle, and Hermione looked up to see that the sun was starting to set. Oh, how she wished it would end soon already.  
After perhaps another hour, they came out. Harry and Cedric were together, and Harry held the trophy. Hermione started to clap rigorously, but stopped abruptly when she noticed Harry’s face. She squinted, and saw that Cedric was still and pale. She started to make her way down, with a racing heart and trembling fingers.  
“Somebody, help!” She screamed. “Anybody!” By now the crowd was starting to realize, and horrified shouts rang out among the whole pitch. Dumbledore and Cornelius Fudge had grabbed Harry, and were talking to him with white faces. Mr. Diggory staggered over as Professor Moody dragged Harry away.  
“Cedric? Son, are you alright?” He asked. “Just a lump, or a bruise, Cedric!” He said, before rushing over. He shook Cedric’s shoulders. “Cedric!” Tears started to pour down his voice, and his voice was hoarse as he let out a hollow scream. “My boy!” He cried. “My boy!” Hermione couldn’t breathe as she watched him hold Cedric in his arms. Madame Pomfrey rushed over with a conjured stretcher. Dumbledore tried to pry Cedric from Mr. Diggory’s arms, but then his face went white. He whispered over to Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, and they sprinted to the castle. Soon, Madame Pomfrey followed with the stretcher and Cedric’s parents.  
Hermione collapsed to her knees and Ron came to her. His eyes were wide, and his freckles stood out starkly against his white, white face. “Where’s Harry?” Hermione cried.  
“’Dunno, but we’re going to go find him in the hospital wing, in the hospital wing” Ron said in a worried, choked voice. Mrs. Weasley bustled on down. She was crying, and the rest of the family was frantic as they all came down. They walked quickly to the hospital wing, and saw Cedric’s parents with Professor Sprout outside of a set of closed curtains. Mr. Diggory was weeping immensely, while Mrs. Diggory’s face was unbelieving, and unmoving.  
“Poppy, where’s Harry?” Mrs. Weasley demanded. “Is he all right?”  
“He’s with Dumbledore,” Madame Pomfrey answered in a far-off voice. “He’s with Dumbledore,” she whispered.  
“Take us to him. Now.” Mrs. Weasley commanded, but Madame Pomfrey shook her head sternly.   
“Harry will be here soon. He is with the Headmaster.” She crossed her arms and stared at Mrs. Weasley with unwavering eyes.  
The doors opened as Mrs. Weasley was still badgering the unanswering Madame Pomfrey. They all turned to face Harry and Dumbledore. Hermione clasped her hand over her mouth, and a tear leaked out of the corner of her eye as she saw his tired face, and the black dog sitting next to him.  
“Harry! Oh Harry!” Mrs. Weasley rushed toward Harry, but Dumbledore halted her.  
“Molly,” he said. “Please listen to me for a moment. Harry has been through a terrible ordeal tonight. He has just had to relive it for me. What he needs now is sleep, and peace, and quiet. If he would like you all to stay with him—“ his eyes swooped over to where Hermione stood with Bill and Ron—“you may do so. But I do not want you questioning him until he is ready to answer, and certainly not this evening.” Hermione nodded. Normally the questions would be bursting at the top of her tongue, and she would bite the inside of her cheek to prevent them from blurting out. That night, she just nodded wearily.  
Mrs. Weasley turned on them. “Did you hear? He needs quiet!” Hermione closed her eyes, and nodded again. The images flashed through her mind, of Fleur, of Harry, of Cedric. Ron tapping her arm pulled her back to the world, and she followed Madame Pomfrey, Harry, Sirius, Bill, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley to the hospital bed. She saw Moody sitting in a bed at the far end, with hanks of hair missing, and immediately felt sick, but she would wait to hear from Harry what happened. She would wait.  
The next morning came and the story came out. Hermione was left with a bitter rage at Fudge, at Crouch, at herself for all the clues she missed. Voldemort was back to full strength. The Ministry would take no action. There was no one to fight Voldemort but the few who knew Harry’s truth.   
The weeks passed by quietly. Hermione studied with Ron and Harry, played chess with them, and visited Hagrid. Nothing was the same, though they tried to move on.  
Hermione spoke to Fleur a week after the incident. She preferred only the company of Harry and Ron, after the tournament, but realized she was being unfair to Fleur. They met at the window overlooking the lake.  
“Fleur,” Hermione started. “Nothing can be as it was. I…” She swallowed. “I don’t think this is a time for anything like this. I don’t know what will come next and I don’t know if I am yet repaired. I can’t fix myself with a spell or find out a way to go back this time and it’s—“ Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s my fault.”  
Fleur stopped Hermione with a gentle brush against her wrist. “’Ermione, eet eez not your fault. Eef Dumbly-dorr did not know, ‘ow could you?” She brushed Hermione’s hair back from her face. “I do not think things can be ze same again. You are wonderful and smart and brave, but zees is not ze right time.”  
“Fleur, how could I not know, though? I was distracted, and I forgot to do what Harry, Ron, and I do—solve the problems. Figure out a way to save everyone.” Hermione looked down. “I failed him. I failed everyone.”  
“Ze world cannot seet on your shoulders alone. You ‘ave not failed alone.” Fleur breathed in deeply. “I think I should be saying good-bye, but first I want to say thank you. For being ‘ere for me, and for ‘elping me enjoy ‘Ogwarts. Maybe we will meet again, but eef not, I am glad forever zat we met. You will save us all. I know eet.”  
“Thank you, Fleur, for understanding.” Hermione sniffled, aware that she most definitely was miserable enough to start to sob. “And thank you for teaching me and helping me learn and caring about me.” Fleur squeezed Hermione’s hands between hers, and gave a final small, endearing smile. Hermione watched as Fleur turned on her heel, and walked back down the hallways to the rest of her life.  
They said goodbye again at the end of the year, of course, in perhaps a roundabout way. It was after the assembly in which Dumbledore told the school, and a sense of direness tinged the atmosphere of what was generally a cheerful conclusion of the school year. Fleur came still, however, to tell Ron, Harry, and Hermione that she planned to come work in America to practice her English, and Ron, as usual, drooled over her. Hermione mock-scowled at this, and Fleur grinned at her with a glint in her eyes. She turned away, and Hermione half-smiled at the sight of her silvery hair gleaming in the sunlight as she climbed into the Beauxbatons carriage. The winged horses beat their powerful wings, and then, she was gone.  
Hermione turned back to Harry and Ron, and they made their way to the Hogwarts train. It was difficult to imagine all the way back to the start of the year as they entered the train once more; it felt as though the world had grown to be hundreds of times more vast than it was before the start of the year. Hermione knew next year would only be harder, naturally, but as she watched Harry and Ron half-heartedly joke around, she knew that they would solve it, and eventually, all would be well.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the read. All reviews are appreciated!


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